


Dogs of War ~ Breathing Space

by tabaqui



Series: Wolfpack [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:12:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Contains somewhat graphic descriptions of physical injuries.<br/>Quoted is Rudyard Kipling's <a href="http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/kipling_ind.html">The Law of the Jungle</a>, from 'The Jungle Books', and Maxine Kumin's 'The Hermit Prays'.  Originally posted in March and May of 2007.</p><p>Dogs of War is outside POV<br/>Breathing Space is Dean's POV</p>
    </blockquote>





	Dogs of War ~ Breathing Space

**Author's Note:**

> Contains somewhat graphic descriptions of physical injuries.  
> Quoted is Rudyard Kipling's [The Law of the Jungle](http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/kipling_ind.html), from 'The Jungle Books', and Maxine Kumin's 'The Hermit Prays'. Originally posted in March and May of 2007.
> 
> Dogs of War is outside POV  
> Breathing Space is Dean's POV

_  
_ 'Dogs of War'

_Now this is the Law of the Jungle -- as old and as true as the sky;_  
_And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die._  
_As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back --_  
_For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack._  
  
  
  
Rock Creek, Kansas  
  
  
In his seventy-sixth year, Efram Marshall had come to realize that he didn't need much sleep. So he found himself up and about until long past midnight, doing crosswords and watching _Law & Order_ and perusing the antique compasses on eBay. He'd restricted himself to one a month.  
  
It was pleasant, also, to sit on his porch in the warm June air, listening to the nighthawks diving for gnats, and the whip-poor-wills calling from down by the creek. Crickets and cicadas and frogs chorusing endlessly as he rocked slowly on the glider, his beer growing warm, his feet chilly in their scuffs.  
  
He rarely had company, living as he did. Down at the end of a twisty dirt road, his house half-hidden by cottonwood and cedar. Rarely, but sometimes – sometimes the Rockaway boys, sometimes old Gunther Lapp, as much of a night-owl as Efram. But mostly nothing disturbed the long nights. Tonight, though... Efram watched a pair of headlights duck in and out through the trees, coming fast up his road. Faster than Gunther would ever drive – faster than the Rockaways, idiot boys that they were. Efram wondered if there was some sort of emergency and stood up, indecisive, on his front porch.  
  
He'd been a medic in the Army – had patched up and shipped out an endless string of soldiers over in Korea. Came home and then did it all over again in Vietnam. Once that mess was behind him, he'd settled into his own little practice right here in Rock Creek. Mostly retired now – everybody wanted to go over to Topeka anymore. But sometimes...  
  
The car swept up his drive, big and black and unknown, rumbling like a bear. It jerked to a stop much too close to the porch and Efram felt that familiar little fluttery twist in his gut. Had to be bad, somebody coming _here_. Coming to him, so late – so frantic.  
  
A door creaked open – then another – then there were two men staggering up his steps, indistinct in the dim light from the living room windows. Clear enough, though, for Efram to see the blood and the dirt and the gun. Shiny silver hand-gun pointed right at his face, held by a hand that shook in autumn-leaf trembles. Efram knew enough about men – and guns – to know that that didn't matter much.  
  
"You the doc?" Voice hoarse and raw, low. _Not_ shaky at all.  
  
"I am. Son –"  
  
"Don't call me that. My brother's hurt, and you're gonna fix him. Right now."  
  
The gun lifted and pointed to the house – swung back to center on Efram again and Efram lifted both hands up a little, fingers spread, palms out. He'd thought he was done with crazy men and guns and crazy men _with_ guns once he'd mustered out. But he still knew how to _act_ around a crazy man with a gun, and that was careful and slow and quiet. "All right. The kitchen's got the best light. Straight back."  
  
"Move," the man said and Efram did, shuffling a little in his scuffs. Opening the screen door and then holding it while the man got his toe up against the edge. Waving Efram on, the brother just barely on his feet, head sagging and limbs sprawling, uncoordinated.  
  
The walk down the hall seemed to take forever, Efram listening to the _thump_ of heavy boots and the tiny, animal noises of pain that every step wrung from the hurt man. Efram reached out and flipped on the kitchen light – headed straight across to the sink and turned on the fluorescent strip that hung there, too. Then he turned around, wincing, as the man with the gun swept the kitchen table clean, sending spoons and sugar bowl and salt and pepper flying and shattering to the floor.  
  
"Here, now, let me help –" Efram said and the gun twitched up again, the man shooting Efram a look of pure venom as he laid his brother down onto the scarred wood. The hurt man's long legs hung off the table, muddy boots leaving streaks on the faded green and cream linoleum. He moaned softly, his hands pawing clumsily at his brother, who patted him absently.  
  
"You just get whatever supplies you need and get going."  
  
"All right." First aid was right up under the kitchen sink with the dish soap, because Efram mostly nicked a finger cutting up tomatoes or burned himself on hot bacon fat. The couch and computer were pretty safe territory, unless you counted the time he'd dropped his steak knife right onto his little toe, skewering it to the sole of his scuff. Efram bent and hauled the kit out – big old tackle box that was painted with a cross in drippy red paint. He couldn't quite quit the habit of being well-stocked, even if he'd never need to sew up a man again.  
  
Except maybe tonight, because the man on the table and the one with the gun both had enough blood on them to make Efram think he'd be honing his suturing skills into the wee hours. He hauled the kit over – up – thumped it down onto a chair and positioned the chair at the hurt man's head. Up close, the both of them smelled of burning – an ashy, sulphur stink that scratched at Efram's nostrils. The hurt man had a length of blood-spotted gauze wrapped clumsily around his head, covering one eye, and Efram found a pair of latex gloves and the bandage scissors and gently went to work, sliding the blunt, angled tips of the scissors up under the gauze and snipping carefully. The man jerked at the touch of the cold metal and Efram hushed him.  
  
"All right, now, all right... How'd you boys know where I live?" Efram asked, peeling the gauze away. A standard Army field dressing lay underneath, saturated with more blood – streaked with dirt.  
  
"You helped our dad once. Set his arm," the gunman said, and Efram looked up at him in surprise.  
  
"I did? You boys live around here?"  
  
"No. Now _pay attention_ and fix him," the man snapped, lifting his gun. Free hand knotted in the hurt man's shirt, holding him still.  
  
"All right, all right. Let's see..." Efram lay the scissors aside and pulled up the edge of the dressing, frowning at the damage beneath. Something had cut – or clawed – across the left side of the man's face from hairline to chin. Gouges deep enough to show the sick gleam of wet bone. The eyelid was ripped, lying askew over a bloody eyeball and Efram pulled off a glove and rummaged out his little flashlight – carefully lifted the torn flesh and examined the damage beneath. The hurt man panted, twitching – pulling away and coming up off the table a few inches, only to be pushed back down by the other man.  
  
"Is he – is he blind?" the other man – older brother – asked, his voice cracking a little, and Efram glanced up at him. At the tightly-leashed panic and bloodshot, exhausted eyes.  
  
"No, he isn't. Unless he gets an infection. He got lucky – whatever did this to him scratched the sclera, but the iris and pupil are still intact." Efram felt after the man's pulse, fingers resting on the dirty, stubbled neck. More blood here, too – more scratches, not quite as deep. Purpling bruises that showed through rents in an olive-drab t-shirt. The man's heartbeat was thready and too fast and Efram checked the intact eye with his flashlight. It barely reacted, blown wide, a thin ring of golden-brown-green around that black well. "Damn. He's in shock I need..." Efram stopped for a minute and thought. He had more supplies in his office in the front of the house. Stuff he'd been given by this and that ex-patient, some of it illegal.  
  
"What do you need?" the gunman asked, and Efram stripped off his other glove and bent over the tackle box, hunting supplies.  
  
"I need the big foot locker in my office. It's in the front of the house, on the left. Army locker. Your brother needs IV fluids before I can do anything else." Efram finally found the little tin box that held his IV needles and the suture kit and he straightened back up, flipping open the lid and then freezing. The man was leaning across the table, the gun was _much_ too close, and Efram didn't dare to breathe.  
  
"I'm not leaving you alone with my brother."  
  
"Wuh-well then, I'll just – go and –"  
  
"And call the cops? No." The man's hand was shaking harder now – fresh blood was streaking down from a hidden wound somewhere over his ear and Efram could _see_ the panic breaking loose. Efram was no fool. He'd seen men go to pieces in a hundred different ways, in his time – was seeing it right now, and a tiny, insistent voice in his head screamed at him to be careful, be careful, be _oh so God damned careful_...  
  
"Son, I have no intention of calling the police. And I'm a doctor, for God's sake – I won't hurt your brother."  
  
"Shut up." The man took a hard breath, gun wavering aside and for the first time, Efram noticed the scar across his throat. Old, but still visible – bad enough to have ruined the man's voice for life. The gunman looked down at his brother – reached out and lightly slapped his uninjured cheek. "Sam. Wake up – I need you."  
  
"What in hell are you doing?" Efram snapped, dismayed, and the man snarled silently at him, the gun coming up and aiming like an afterthought – like an extension of the man himself. He slapped a little harder and the hurt man – Sam – jerked under the blow, both his hands coming up to grab wildly at his brother's arm.  
  
"Sam? Hey, buddy. It's me."  
  
"De...Dean..." Sam swallowed, licked his lips and made a little face. Efram imagined they didn't taste very good. "What...? You ok-kay?"  
  
"I'm fine, Sam." The gunman - _Dean_ \- leaned down and got his arm under his brother – got him upright, grimacing. Favoring his side in a way that made Efram sure Dean had a broken rib or two. "See this guy?" Dean asked, gently pushing Sam's chin and Sam's head swung around and his good eye focused woozily on Efram.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"He's the doc. Gonna fix you up but I gotta get his stuff. It's in the front of the house. Can you watch him?"  
  
Sam and Efram both blinked, and Efram opened his mouth to protest – to tell this Dean kid that he was _nuts_ , when Sam nodded jerkily.  
  
"Yeah, I can – I can do it."  
  
"One minute," Dean said, and then he was pressing his gun into his brother's hands and the barrel was lifting and pointing at Efram, more steadily than Efram would have thought possible. "Shoot him if he comes at you. Hell – just shoot him if he moves."  
  
"I g-got it," Sam said. Dean touched his brother's shoulder – turned and jogged down the hall, boots thumping and scattering little clots of dried mud. Efram just stood there, suture kit in his fingers and his mouth dry – heart hammering fit to break his breastbone.  
  
"Son, I won't hurt you."  
  
"I know you won't," the man said, his gaze wandering over the kitchen – finding Efram again with an effort, sweat-sheened skin grey and pale.  
  
"Can you tell me what happened?" Efram asked, and the corner of Sam's mouth twitched up a little, sickly half-smile that showed blood-washed teeth. It made the hairs on the back of Efram's neck stand up and he stared in sick fascination.  
  
"We made a h-hole in the world, doc. Hole straight to h-hell."  
  
"And we sent every last evil son of a bitch we could find right down into it. I got it, Sam." The other was there suddenly, kicking the foot locker across to Efram and lifting the gun out of Sam's hands – easing him back down onto the table while Sam blinked in confusion and then shut his good eye, shivering.  
  
"Hurts, Dean."  
  
"I know. I got it." Dean looked up at Efram and Efram stared back for a moment and then dug his key-ring out of his pocket – unlocked the foot locker and got what he needed. It was going to be a long night.  
  
  
  
  
Near dawn, Efram was finally done. He dried his hands sketchily on a dish towel and then leaned with a sigh against the sink edge. His back and shoulders were screaming – his hands shaking and his legs feeling like they were about to give out. He shuffled across the kitchen floor, grimacing at the muck and mess all over it. Later – in the afternoon, he'd clean it. Right now... Right now, he ached and he was so tired he felt dizzy – heavy and numb. He fumbled a beer out of the fridge and pried the cap off against the edge of the counter – took a long drink before heading back to the kitchen table. The ruins of two t-shirts lay crumpled on its stained surface, along with the torn packages from fresh bandages and the snipped ends of sutures.  
  
Efram found the aspirin and shook three out into his palm – downed them swiftly with the beer and then put the bottle down with a little crack onto the table. Dear God, he was tired. He let his eyes close for a moment, seeing in his head the image of the older man carefully lifting the younger one up. Making sure he was steady on his feet, one callused palm pressed to a bandaged, dirt-freckled chest. The long, silent look that had passed between them, and the slow touch of foreheads and then lips, a kiss so desperate and so careful – so full of longing and love that Efram had only stared, lost in the sense-memory of the first kiss he'd shared with his Deborah, fifty years ago.  
  
Efram swayed slightly on his feet and forced his eyes open, pushing the memory away. It disturbed him – humbled him – and he was too wrung out to puzzle it through. He made his way slowly down the hall and shook his smirched scuffs off where the linoleum gave way to the faded Oriental rugs. Momma's rugs, still hung up and beaten with an old badminton racket every spring. He stepped onto the rug and made his way to the foot of the stairs, pausing for a moment to look into the living room.  
  
The curtains were drawn closed so that the only light was indistinct – fuzzy gold and peach-rose, coming in around the edges and getting lost in the corners. The hurt boy – the _badly_ hurt one – lay on the couch, cocooned in blankets and swaddled in fresh, white gauze. Face washed clean but his hair still lank with sweat and filth. He was asleep, breathing easily. His brother was on the floor, knees up and arms crossed over them, that damn big gun in his hands. His head was down but as Efram stopped it lifted with a snap, his eyes catching the light and flashing bottle-green and wide in the gloom. He had his own share of stitches and bandages – his own patches of clean, tanned skin.  
  
Efram nodded wearily at him and then took a deep breath – assayed the long, long climb _up_. For a moment he wished he could just go into his office and collapse in his La-Z-Boy, but he knew he'd regret it once he woke back up. Bed, at his age, was best. With a grunt of effort he hauled himself up the first step and then the next, and was panting lightly when he finally made it to the top.  
  
He shed his clothes in a heap right beside the bed – didn't have the energy for his pajamas or even his toothbrush. He tugged the sheets back and with a wavering sigh collapsed onto the mattress. A slow breeze – fresh with dew and the scent of roses – eddied in through the open windows, teasing a lock of hair across Efram's forehead. He didn't even have the strength to lift his hand to brush it back, and was asleep before the next waft of clean, cool air did it for him.  
  
When he woke, it was just after two in the afternoon, and the boys were gone.

 

 

'Breathing Space'

  
_God of the topmost branch_  
_god of the sheltering leaf_  
_fold your wing over._  
_Keep secret and keep safe._  
  
  
  
Dean knew what they called him and his family. _Wolfpack_. The first time he'd ever heard it, he'd liked it and laughed at it in the same breath. Didn't let it go to his head. John ignored it and Sam – a total geek at fourteen – researched it and told Dean he should roll over and show his belly. Dean wrestled Sam to the ground and yanked Sam's shirt up and Dad brought his hand down in a ringing slap onto Sam's flat belly, grinning. Sam wore the imprint for hours, shooting black looks at Dean from under his shaggy bangs.  
  
Later, Dean traced the mark with tongue and lips until Sam was panting, hips lifting up in little jerky arcs. Dad in the other bed, breathing soft and slow. Watching, or not – didn't matter. They'd lived too long as one entity, one thing – _*one pack*_ – to truly care. Sam was soap-sweet and salt-sour on Dean's tongue, fingers rubbing up the back of Dean's neck. One leg bent and flexing, heel pressed into Dean's ribs. He came with a hiss of ragged breath, hands going flat to the mattress, head thrown back and Dean wanted to wind himself around his brother and never let go.  
  
Winchester Wolfpack but Dean didn't know if they counted as a pack anymore, now that they were only two. Him and Sam. Their Dad...lost. The ruins of the church at Stull – the ground itself – cracking and falling and _gone_ , funneling down into an ever-widening fissure that had eventually swallowed six miles of Kansas dirt.  
  
And Dean lifting Sam, shoulder under Sam's arm and arm around Sam's waist, dragging him to the car and shoving him inside. Stifling the need to _help him, help Sam, Sam's hurt_ because _Dad_ was hurt. Dad was _down_ , on his knees – screaming out the words of the spell in a voice gone raw and broken. Bloody froth falling from his lips as easily as the Latin, skin and muscle and finally bone ablating away in a caustic, dust-choked whirlwind.  
  
And Dean had promised – _promised_ – his Dad. Promised he wouldn't try to stop him – wouldn't try to interfere. He'd stood there for agonizing seconds, watching as _Dad, Dad, Dad_ his father had been... Rubbed out. Scoured down to nothing, his ashes furling out in a glittering skein and mixing with the writhing black pillar that was the demon. Cold-silver thread twining forever with black – all of it twisting and turning and finally flowing down – away – gone.  
  
And then Dean had turned and gotten into the car – started the engine and driven away as if all the demons of hell were pouring up out of that crack in the earth, instead of being yanked down into it. Driven with white knuckles and wet cheeks and his heart pounding, pounding, pounding. Sam whimpering, an endless, mindless creel of agony that Dean couldn't fix and couldn't bear. It was a half an hour before he'd registered where they were – what direction he was driving. Near enough to Rock Creek and that old man – that old doctor that had helped their Dad once. He'd help Sam, now.  
  
The next day – around four – they'd arrived at the little, tree-shrouded cabin on the north side of the Potawatomi Reservation and it had taken Dean ten minutes to uncramp his hands from the steering wheel and just...let go. _*Safe...finally safe.*_  
  
Sitting on the floor now, legs outstretched and his Dad's journal lying in the v between his thighs, Dean blinked heavy eyes and rested his head on the edge of the mattress behind him. Awake for too long, his intermittent, pained cat-naps in Rock Creek nothing against the tidal exhaustion that was drowning him. Sam right there, his hand lying curled beside Dean's head – his lungs rising and falling in too-short breaths, little wheeze and hitch from three broken ribs. A Sam who was washed and tended and drifting toward a codeine sleep and Dean could finally just...breathe.  
  
_*Just us, just us, Sam and me, not even a pack anymore, just us, oh god, Dad, Daddy...*_ Aware, because of the itch, of the dust and the sweat that soaked him – chafed him. Dust that was probably some small part of his Dad, and Dean ground his head back into the mattress and stared at the ceiling until it swam, cold line of tears flowing into his hair. The bandages the old man had wound around his arm – his chest – pulling and uncomfortable. Sam breathed in – exhaled harshly and jerked, and Dean turned his head to look at him. Sam's eye was half open, pupil pin-point small, the dappled brown and gold and green of the iris dull. The other hidden by clean white gauze, hurt but mending. Not blind, thank Christ.  
  
"Hey, Sam."  
  
Sam licked his lips – moved his head fitfully, looking dazedly into the shadowed corners of the room. "Dee...Dean."  
  
"I'm here. Need a drink?" Sam nodded and Dean leaned to his right, picking up a water bottle from the floor, bright blue bendable straw sticking out of the top. "Here. Take it slow, now."  
  
Sam drank, measured mouthfuls that he swallowed carefully. Two, three – some of a fourth and his head fell back, little tremor of exhausted muscles. A drop of water trickled from the corner of his mouth and Dean wiped it gently away with his thumb. "Dean...Dad?"  
  
Dean concentrated on the moisture on Sam's lip – on pushing the damp strands of hair back from Sam's forehead. Hurt welling in his chest and throat – making everything so tight he could barely breathe. Couldn't speak at all, so he finally just shook his head. Sam made a small, wounded sound – animal sound – his eye squeezing shut and his whole face contorting in shock and grief. Exhaustion and drugs making tears streak down, sudden quicksilver track and Dean heaved himself up onto his knees and wrapped an arm around Sam's shoulders – put a hand to the back of Sam's head and pulled him close. Sam's face wet and hot in the crook of Dean's neck, Sam's fingers weakly twisting in Dean's t-shirt as Sam fought not to cry. Fought not to move, lungs pressing against broken bone and torn muscle.  
  
"Shhh, shhh, shhh...I know, I know," Dean murmured. Kissed Sam's hair and stroked his temple – his cheek. Choking back his own tears because he would cry when Sam could. "He did it, he won, but he's gone, he's gone, Sam, just us..."  
  
Sam was nodding into Dean's neck – sniffing carefully, shuddering all over. Dean eased away from him, rocking back onto his heels a little. Wiping Sam's face with the corner of the sheet and Sam tried a tiny, wobbly smile. Lost it. "Dean, c-can we... I want to have mom h-here. Please?"  
  
"Sure. Sure, Sam." Dean said. He reached down and picked up Dad's journal – opened it and shuffled carefully through the haphazard collection of business cards and scrap paper tucked into the front. At the bottom, carefully folded into a worn piece of paper was a square of cardboard. He unwrapped it with slow reverence, careful to handle it by the edges. His fingers were dirty. He handed the cardboard to Sam and Sam took it with equal care – turned it toward the dim lamp on the night stand.  
  
It was a prayer card, something that they'd found in Pastor Jim's church years ago. When Sam had been five and Dean nine and the church had been all huge, hollow spaces and echoes, light falling through the colored glass like knife-blades. Beautiful and terrible. The woman on the card was dressed in white and blue with a pale-golden veil over her head. Dean remembered when they'd found her – when he'd carefully read the inscription on the front. 'Mary', it said. 'Blessed Mother'. _" **Our** mother"_ , he'd whispered to Sam, awestruck and shaking. Their mother as Dad said she was, up in heaven. _"An angel, watching over us, boys. She's always watching over us..."_  
  
Sam touched the card with reverent, shaking fingers – stroked the white robe and the gently smiling face. "Dad's with her, right? He's with Mom now. He k-killed the demon so he – he gets to go to heaven."  
  
"Yeah, he does. He's up there with her right now. They're both watching us now, Sam." Dean wanted to touch the card, too – wanted to draw comfort from the worn surface but he was too dirty. Was sure he would leave fingerprints – mar her perfection forever.  
  
"I want to go to church," Sam murmured, his eye drooping shut – the card slipping sideways in his hands. He knew where they were – knew that Our Lady of Snows was twenty minutes away. _Mom_ was, in gilded splendor in the little clapboard church.  
  
"We will. In a couple of days," Dean promised. Sam didn't reply – breathed softly, asleep again, and Dean plucked the card gingerly from his hand. He hesitated a long moment and then slid it under Sam's pillow. Then he levered himself to his feet and made the rounds, checking each window, both doors. A warm June breeze puffed through the screens and the crickets sang in the underbrush. A whip-poor-will called, and then called again, and Dean could hear the sonorous croaking of the frogs in the far off creek – _come-across, come-across, come-across_. Everything was still – the salt safe in the deep troughs they'd carved in the sills. Devil's traps, binding glyphs, protection sigils and wards of intent on every wall. On the floor, on the ceiling. Witches' jars buried in the yard and bottles hung from the trees.  
  
Nowhere was safer – nowhere was more impregnable. They had a generator, a couple of tankless water heaters and a well that ran pure and cold all year long. Dean took a long, long breath and finally, slowly, let himself relax. He looked over at Sam one more time and then headed to the bathroom.  
  
Half an hour later, showered and freshly bandaged, he shuffled out to the main room. He'd lost a fingernail, broken the finger and looked – and felt – like the loser in a heavyweight championship fight. But Sam was safe, and Dean edged himself down carefully onto the bed – under the covers. Curled up beside Sam, skin on skin, his head on the same pillow and his fingers resting lightly on Sam's hip. His other hand under the pillow, just grazing the edge of the card. Loaded gun by the door, another by the bed, a knife in the sheath on the headboard. _*Safe, we're safe, Sammy... Oh, Dad...*_  
  
He was asleep in minutes, moonlight just beginning to sift down through the trees.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wolfpack 'Verse 1-3 [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3911239) by [podfic_lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/podfic_lover/pseuds/podfic_lover)




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